Visions of a Dark Moon
by Angel of Revenge22
Summary: From when he wakes up to something --someone-- saying they love him, through the school year only to face something he never expected, Draco's year and life is about to take a turn for the worst.
1. Whispers in the Shadows

Disclaimer: I'm truly sorry, but you must be a sheer idiot if you think I came up with the characters. Thank the lady who lives in Britain who actually WROTE the books for these great characters (you know, J.K. Rowling). But I, thank you very much, owe the plot to me.  
  
Chapter 1: Whispers in the Shadows  
  
"I love you, Draco," The shadow whispered. This was not something Draco expected to hear as he woke up in the middle of the night. It sounded like someone he knew, some girl from Hogwarts, he was sure. But he was home. How could he hear the voice if he was home at the Malfoy estate? He looked where he thought he heard the voice. Nothing was there. It must have been his imagination. Had to have been.  
  
When he properly woke up the next morning, to the little voice of a house- elf beside his bed, he thought he heard the voice again. But it was only Gertrude, the new house-elf that Father had arranged for Draco to be tended by only two weeks earlier. Draco had somehow formed a soft spot for her and called her Trudy. Trudy was nothing special but she had the biggest blue eyes that he'd ever seen, and somehow he thought of an old governess that he once had as a child when he saw her.  
  
Trudy was scrubbing something on the pale carpet that Mother had decorated for him. "Draco, sir, you must stop hurting yourself so much, sir." She looked up at him. "Draco, sir, you're going to go too far one of these days, sir." She went back to scrubbing. He looked at what she was scrubbing. It was dark and almost a blackish red. His eyes widened as he realised that she was scrubbing his blood off the carpet. His blood.  
  
She knew what he was doing. Every night after Mother or Father had yelled and screamed at him to be a Death Eater or to marry some Death Eater's deathly-pale daughter once he was out of Hogwarts. After he screamed at them he didn't care so much as they did about either situation. Sure, Father had great stories about Lord Voldemort and his doings, all of which Draco had seemed to find interesting, but his enthuse for what his father did was not as great as Father hoped. After all this, Draco would barge into his room and slam the door. By this point it would always be so close to midnight that the moon would be high in the sky. A candle, always lit by Trudy after dinner, would be lightly aflame. He would open that drawer he always kept locked to retrieve his weapon of destruction: a knife. He would sit on his bed and swipe the knife across various points on his arm for close to half-an-hour and various other parts of his body. The blood would land on his carpet, but he would be too tired to notice and would fall back asleep onto his bed. Of course, Trudy, looking out for her master, would blow the candle out and fix him properly in bed, never seeing the blood until the dawn of the next morning as she came to wake him up.  
  
Draco looked into those monstrous eyes of Trudy's and looked at his arm; it was cut up, raw, and scabbed. He felt his bare chest, where he felt the sting of cuts against his hands. He looked at the drawer beside his huge king-sized bed. Suddenly, since he had forgotten her presence, Trudy spoke, "Draco, sir, its safely locked up, sir. Sir, I made sure I locked it, Draco, sir." He looked to her eyes and saw they were staring at what Draco had just a second before. When she spoke to him, she never referred to her self as Trudy, or possibly Gertrude, like she would have had Master Malfoy been in the room. She thought that an old practice and often scorned other house-elves for still preserving this horrid custom. But she had to play dumb when Master Malfoy was around. She still had to treat her masters with respect. That's why she began and ended all her phrases with 'Sir' or 'Madam.' She had to keep watch on Draco. She wasn't about to get the boot because she was being fresh to Master or Mistress Malfoy. She wasn't about to let some other blabber-mouth house-elf take her place. She loved Draco. No, not in some lovey-dovey way. She loved him like he was her child. She picked up his messes, and swept them neatly under the metaphorical carpet. If any other house-elf took her place, he or she might tell Master Malfoy about Draco's self-destructive habits, and to Trudy, this would just feed the fire of Draco's apparent unhappiness.  
  
Draco blinked. Trudy had referred to herself as 'I,' which was something he was used to by now, but yet it was still so alien. Never before had he felt this way about a simple house-elf. He let it slip and almost instantly forgot about it as she spoke again. "Draco, sir, its getting close to breakfast, sir. Sir, you should be getting dressed, Draco, sir." He nodded absently and got up from bed. He was not a small fellow; he was getting close to being six foot at age sixteen, not exceptionally tall, but it suited him. He was slim and unnoticeably muscular. Not like he had biceps the size of Trudy, but he wasn't a frail thing in the least. He was satisfied with his body and never complained about how it was flawed in some manner. To him, there was no use fighting it if it didn't harm him.  
  
It was sometime in July. Draco would be alone all day until Father came home, with the exception to the house-elves. Mother never stayed past breakfast, since she was usually off to some tea that some Death Eater's wife was having. There seemed to be one every day, as far as he was concerned. But it didn't bother him. He was just fine with his mother not around. She was just like his father, only with breasts it seemed. And the eyes. His mother looked almost exactly like his father, but her eyes were milky blue, some unnatural colour, unlike the steel that was his father's eyes. Draco had a nice mixture of the two. A silvery blue, though you had to get real close in order to actually see the blue streaks that lined his eyes. Not many people were ever that close; maybe his mother on those rare occasions she wasn't an unbearable witch and she would kiss his cheek before bed, she might've noticed. But that probably wasn't on her agenda to notice her handsome son's eyes.  
  
That was another thing. Draco was no ugly kid. His parents seemed to be the epitome of beauty. His mother must have won pageants when she was a child for her breath-taking beauty; it was another unnatural feature of hers. His father obviously had lots of young women chasing him when he attended Hogwarts. But they must have also done more than just 'chasing,' Draco assumed. But he wasn't sure; he hadn't ever really asked his father about his sexual escapades as a teenager, that would have been too awkward.  
  
Draco had decided to go to bed shirtless, since it was very hot in the year- round-heated mansion. Yes, the heat had been turned down, but it was still bloody unbearable in his room. Sleeping shirtless solved the problem enough to satisfy him. But when he got up from his bed, it seemed the temperature must have dropped several degrees to him. He grabbed his arms and rubbed them for warmth. He walked and grabbed the black-with-white- pinstripe suit shirt from the chair at his desk. He grabbed some dark khakis and slipped them on. This was just what he was going to wear to breakfast while his mother was around. He had to look presentable at breakfast. It was just a rule. Afterwards, he might change into a T-shirt and jeans.  
  
As he walked down the hall to the massive staircase that lead to the entrance of the mansion, he heard only his breathing and the whispers from the various pictures and paintings that adorned the walls. All of them shot glances at him and then would continue to whisper to another person in another picture. Only one of the pictures did not.  
  
It was a black and white picture of a young girl with thick, white blonde hair who was frowning, not at him, but for being frozen in this time.  
  
It was his mother, of course. 


	2. Drawn Blood

Disclaimer: I'm truly sorry, but you must be a sheer idiot if you think I came up with the characters. Thank the lady who lives in Britain who actually WROTE the books for these great characters (you know, J.K. Rowling). But I, thank you very much, owe the plot to me.  
  
Chapter 2: Drawn Blood  
  
"Draco, it came last night," she whispered. But then she moved behind the velvet that was behind her in the picture. One couldn't see much besides her small wrist and the beginnings of her arm. She was wearing a beautiful strapless dress and had a drape around her arms. But as he looked closely, he could have sworn there were little marks about her arm.  
  
What the in the hell was she talking about? What came, for Christ's sake? Why was every painting and picture whispering as he came down the hall? The picture of his mother absorbed him, for he was trying to see if she would tell him anything, when Trudy came out of his room and ushered him along. She was only about four feet shorter than he was, but she could sure push him where she wanted him to go. "Draco, sir, your mother will be waiting downstairs, sir. Sir, you might want to go now before she gets mad, sir. Draco, sir, go." He noticed the sternness in her voice and went down the stairs. He looked back at her, but she was gone, off to do his laundry, possibly. But no matter, breakfast was the important thing. He quickly rushed down the stairs, skipping every few steps, and dashed into the dining room where his mother was eating her breakfast.  
  
She looked up at him, but said nothing. She kept her stern lips shut tightly; she had an intent stare as she was looking in his eyes; he had no choice but to remain silent in his mother's wake. She looked more elegant that day than he'd seen her all summer. She wore a simple dress: a black, sheer almost-sundress, but in its simplicity it was gorgeous. Black was one of the few colours she could wear because of her electric blond hair and pale skin; otherwise she'd be a ghost. Her eyes had been accented by a pale grey shadow, which made her look alive when near the colour of her blue eyes.  
  
Mother didn't stay long during breakfast. After Draco had finished but half of his meal, his mother got up from her seat and walked over to him. She kissed the top of his head in a motherly fashion, which surprised Draco, and kept walking. She said in a soft voice, "Mrs. Rukenbacher's having a tea at her house. I'll be home around three." She was gone at the end of the word 'three.' Now, he was alone.  
  
He sat in his chair, his hands out on the table as though he had to support himself. He looked up for one second and saw a girl sitting where his mother had just been only moments before. He blinked, shook his head and saw that there was nothing there. "Shit. I need sleep." With this, he got up, proceeded to unbutton his shirt and took it off, and returned to his room to change into something more comfortable. He grabbed a pair of long, cut-off jeans and a deep blue T-shirt from his immense bureau. He looked like a street thug with horrible taste, but he changed for comfort not style in the comfort of his own home; there was no need to impress anyone now, since no one was even around besides him and the house-elves that worked behind closed doors. He sat down heavily on the side of his bed, his eyes slowly drifting towards his bedside drawer. He wanted to take its contents and mutilate his arm until it didn't even resemble its original state anymore. He had a sudden impulse to open the drawer, and before his mind even thought twice about it, his fingers were on the brass. It was so cold; his room always seemed to be a bit cooler, if even only by a few degrees, than the rest of the bloody hot house. He ran his fingers over the ornate design. It must have been designed and crafted in the 1700's, for his mother was a big enthusiast of that era and had decorated his room in mostly that period's décor. But again, before he was able to think about what he was going to do, he opened the drawer, though his memory told him it was locked, or that was what Trudy had said earlier. Maybe... no. He removed the knife and looked at it. Never before had he actually looked at the hilt. It was only a carving in rosewood, maybe, which his father had paid lots of money for some muggle to hand-carve, but it was still quite a piece.  
  
He finally took the knife and brought it to his skin. He pushed it hard against his skin, harder than most times he had ever before, and drew blood almost instantly. He cut threw the scabs, the raw skin, the sting causing his brain to temporarily numb. He closed his eyes and bit his lip. He had always been a bit of a coward to some types of pain; that was one of his week points. In particular was his arm and wrist. The reason in third year he was in so much pain when the hippogriff clawed his arm was that that year, he began his self-destructive habit, and the previous night he had made fresh cuts that stung like hell that day. Thank the lord Madame Pomfrey hadn't seen them as she mended his arm. They blended right in with the deep gash on his arm; it was the perfect cover-up.  
  
But now he had made big cuts on his arm. The ones he knew would leave scars. He began to feel tired as he cut deeper. There was lots of blood; as he began to loose focus, the cuts were beginning to fuse together. He saw the dark velvet envelop his pale arm. The last thing he remembered as his cuts became extremely deep and lots of blood was coming forth from his wounds, was dropping the knife onto the floor and falling back onto his bed in a mixture of unconsciousness and sleep. Minutes later, Trudy walked in with a handful of laundry in a wicker basket to see her unconscious master laid out on his bed, his legs hanging off the edge. There were little drops of blood of the tops of his feet, the drops that had hit his foot en route to the floor. She sighed. She went up to the side of the bed and scaled the bed so she was next to him. She muttered a soft spell used by house-elves and his arm stopped bleeding, then closed her eyes and whispered another spell to clean it. She went to the top of his body and dragged his body fully onto the bed, now with his feet hauled on the sheets as well. She mustered up some of her inner-strength and moved him so his body was now lying properly. She lightly kissed his cheek, a big taboo in the eyes of both house-elves and wizards.  
  
When Draco finally awoke, it was a week before school was due to start. His mind must have slipped and he was in a numb from that day forward until now, when his conscious returned. He had no recollection of the times between then, but that didn't matter; who really wanted to remember days filled with solitude? He certainly didn't. He wanted to leave the bloody house. When he thought he could fill this new day by packing for school, he found his trunk already packed. He suddenly felt eyes on him and turned to see Trudy standing with a small box. "Draco, sir, it's already packed, sir. Sir, since this morning, Draco, sir." She pushed her arms towards him, the box now inches away from his hand. He took the box; it was just a normal wooden box, possibly once holding an heirloom piece of silverware or necklace. "Draco, sir, don't open it, sir. Sir, just put it in your trunk, Draco, sir." With that he put it in his trunk with out a word. He wondered what it was, why she told him not open it. But he didn't question her; she had her reasons, he was sure. 


	3. Awoken Again

Disclaimer: I'm truly sorry, but you must be a sheer idiot if you think I came up with the characters. Thank the lady who lives in Britain who actually WROTE the books for these great characters (you know, J.K. Rowling). But I, thank you very much, owe the plot to me.  
  
Chapter 3: Awoken Again  
  
Draco crammed a piece of paper and a pen in his long, deep blue jeans that covered the tips of his grey shoes. He had a thin, black jacket on to cover the many scars that played about his wrist, as well as to keep him warm on the slightly chilly station area. Crabbe and Goyle, even though they were complete gits, were surprisingly observant, they might pick up on his habit. He couldn't let that happen. He could not let his guard down for a second. He began to tap his foot uneasily. Mother had insisted on dropping him off a bit early; the train was there, but no one, whoever was even there at that point at least, had boarded because of socialising. Draco preferred not socialise just yet. His trunk was at his feet and he began to search the small crowd that was developing. He saw the hoard of Weasleys accompanied by Hermione Granger and Harry Potter. A sick feeling swept through his stomach, how he despised the load of them. They were all laughing at Fred and George, the twins that were graduating that year from Hogwarts, who were setting off some of their assorted treats, such as rockets that can sneak up on someone and yell something in the person's ear or spinning hats that make you levitate slightly.  
  
Draco looked back at the train but then his glance returned to the roaming band; Granger must have had a haircut over the summer, since it was now just above her shoulder, when the year before it was falling down her back. Harry had grown taller over the summer, since he was rivalling Ron for height, only being a few inches shorted than Weasley, who was pushing six foot four. Draco sighed and had a bored frown on his face. Now there were a lot more people than there were before. He looked around and his eyes fell on a girl with dark red, an almost purple-red colour, standing beside the Weasleys. He squinted to see who it was. He felt his jaw drop a little when he realised it was an older, taller, definitely more mature Ginny Weasley.  
  
But Draco slapped himself mentally and told himself not to concentrate on the group. He sat down on his black trunk with the name 'Malfoy' written in gothic church style writing on it. He finally saw Crabbe and Goyle followed almost immediately by Blaise Zabini and Millicent Bulstrode. They meandered towards him and planted their stuff down beside his. Blaise and Millicent were deep in a conversation about their summer holidays. Blaise began to laugh his deep, throaty laugh at Millicent pathetic tale of a garden gnome that rooted through her room and stole a few of her necklaces. She had to laugh, since it sounded pretty unbelievable.  
  
He heard the loud shill whistle that prompted everyone to pick up their bags and load onto the train. Draco hauled his trunk into one of the compartments of the train. He shoved the monstrosity over his head and plopped down on a seat directly below it. He sighed and his eyelids dropped as though they had weights on them. He had been asleep only minutes, and by that point Blaise, Crabbe, and Goyle had loaded into the same compartment, and the train had begun to move, when his eyes shot open and he gasped loudly. This brought attention to himself as he looked uneasily around the room. Blaise and Crabbe looked at him seriously across from him as Goyle bent his head toward Draco.  
  
He could have sworn someone whisper in his ear as he slept, "Draco, I know what's wrong."  
  
(A/n: sorry to end abruptly and for the short chapter, but I hate having to blend times in one chapter, so just wait until I'm not groggy and tired and I don't have temporary writers block [hopefully it will go away soon (] well. That's it for now. Sorry. Boo.) 


End file.
